Hyacinth Birthday
"Hey, Max?" A stunted, curve-laden young woman stepped out of the doorway, avoiding the masses of tomato vines securing the wood of the home. On the porch, with flowers and tall grass surrounding him, was a boy with a large band-aid stuck to his cheek and a ratty brown aviator's jacket resting on his shoulders. His chin rested on his chest, eyes closed, completely serene. The girl almost immediately regretting getting his attention. The boy on the porch, Max, looked up with a washed-out face, a sickly gray-white that matched with his violet eyes gave him an unearthly appearance. He didn't look like the strong young man who'd arrived in camp just a few months ago; in fact, he looked like the living dead. "Oh. Hey, Trinity." "...Trina. Just call me Trina." The girl at the door replied, smoothing her sundress down and reaching back into the house. She presented a large bouquet, seperated by types and colors with small notecards gently placed in the stems. Max looked up with a smile and, with the support of the grassy deck, creaked back onto his feet and shuffled over to her. From this close, he looked even worse, Trina noticed. His hands were long and bony, nails chewed enough to bleed, and he looked much thinner in recent times. But that was to be accepted under the circumstances. With a faint smile, she held the flowers out to him and with shaking hands, he took them. As the flowers left her hands, the contrast between the two was highly noticeable. The contrast of his pale skin to her olive, and his callouses versus her usually gloved smooth skin. It was almost artistic. One of the more inclined kids from the Apollo cabin would no doubt have seen it too, and probably asked to paint it. He took the flowers and his eyes dartedaround awkwardly, unsure of what to say. He used to visit the cabin often to see Trina, and they could talk for hours because there was so much ado, but now he was lost for words. He finally settled on a brief and shaky "Thanks." before turning around and leaping off the porch of Demeter's cabin, and making his way down the center of camp. It was a chilly day, cloud cover only leaving parts of the sun able to reach the ground, and only a few campers were outside. Most relaxed on their cabin porches, watching the road. Some of the newer campers questioned who the boy on the road was, the one with the huge bouqet who licked like he was about to collapse. And assuming another, more intelligible cabin mate was outside with them, they would lean over and whisper: "That's the boy who conquered the Yale." And if the campmates asked what a 'Yale' was, aside fromthe college, they were met with a sternfaced reply. "A terrible beast." The only exception was perhaps the leader of the Dionysus cabin, Richie, who loudly proclaimed "It ain't none o' yer damn business, crabcake." And a small smile graced Max's face as he stood in front of the cabin, his friend rushing down the steps to take him into a bear hug, long hair swaying in the breeze comically. If there were two people Max could trust, they were Trinity Winacre and Richie Stanford. "Come on man, you're gonna crush my flowers." Max mumbled into his friends shoulder, which gave way as Richie pulled back. "Sorry, man. Look, ya need a ride?" Max shook his head and flicked his flowers out, letting them return to full bloom. "I can walk." He leaned around Richie's frame and looked at the boy on the deck—no older than 11 at least, sipping a small glass of Hawaiian Punch and staring directly at them. "Who's that?" "Lennie Watkinson, just came in this morning. Kid's mom just dropped him at the gate and hauled it out. That's the first time he's talked to anyone other than Chiron." Richie nodded with a sigh. "Gotta show him whose boss riht away." "That was sorta mean though, wasn't it? I mean, he's just a kid." Rich's eyes opened and he massaged his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. "Stokerman," he sighed, addressing Max by his last name, "do you remember the day you arrived at camp?" "Yeah." Max nodded. "They pushed me in with the Ares kids and they all took turns playing trampoline on my back. In the dirt." "Right-o. Now, I could be playing 'tie the new kid to the flagpole' or 'put the kid on top of the gate and watch him cry', but I'm a nice guy. Sometimes, you've gotta be a little harsh to assert authority." Richie looked back at the boy on the porch, who waved shyly from his seat. After a few seconds, Rich beckoned him over and the little boy came rushing over, showing off a scrape on his knee and badly-damaged camouflage flip-flops. "Here, Lennie, why don't you ask him why he's got all 'em flowers?" Lennie cleared his throat and looked up, revealing a two buck teeth, and one that was chipped. "What've you got all the flowers for, mister?" His voice was heinously sweet and young. "They're for my little sister." "Why does she need them?" "It's her birthday, and I did a bad thing." "Can you tell me what you did?" Max paused at the question and turned to Richie, who suddenly looked uncomfortable. "You know what, little man," he said, sweeping his long hair off his should and grabbing Lennie by his armpits. "We'll talk inside." Max turned and started shuffling toward the gate with final words of encouragement from Richie, who was just entering the cabin. "I'm sure she'll forgive you." -- The field was beautiful now. Patches of light from the clouds lit up patches of stones, with writings of love and loss. In the center of it all, though, was a small stone house. It was built by the Hephaestus cabin upon special request, and the more artistically inclined children (mostly from Apollo's cabin), helped with the carving and designs of the statues outside the house. The windows were dark and the door was shut and locked, but she was probably home. And probably still angry. "Hey, El." Max began, placing a hand on the glass window. The warmth made the window fog around it, leaving his hadprint stained into the glass. "I just came by to say happy birthday to my favorite sister." My only sister. He knocked on the window, but nothing stirred. The home was too dark to see into anyway, and he continued. "I know this probably doesn't mean much, El, but I figured I would bring you some flowers. You always liked that flower language, right? I couldn't get a cake though, sorry." He walked to the front of the house, to the beautifully weaved doormat which a close friend of hers (and daughter of Athena) made. It was on a raised step just underneath the awning over the door, protecting it from any rain. From the bouqet, he first pulled a few stems of Coreopsis flowers, yellow and orange with a few pink ones, sliding them into the stone mailbox that jutted out of the side of the house. They contrasted it just as he liked. "Trina tells me they symbolize always being cheerful, and if anyone fits the bill, it's you." Next, from a small package in the bouqet, he retrieved a few acorns. Gently, he lined the top of the mailbox just behind the flowers, trying to get them to stand upright. "Acorns are a symbol of life and immortality. Trina suggested them." Next, a bundle of purple flowers wrapped tightly with a silver ribbon. He placed these in a cyclindrical tube on the side of the house, where the newspaper would be delivered if she subscribed to that malarkey. "Julia wanted me to bring some of these. Irises—they mean that she appreciates your friendship. They also symbolize wisdom, hope, and valour." He paused and laughed quietly to himself. "El, I really hope your listening. The neighbors are going to think I'm crazy—a tall pale guy talking about flowers." He swore he heard someone stifle a laugh inside the house, but continued without another word. Next, a bundle of Holly, courtesy of the Hermes cabin advisor. Max looked above the door, where a pair of large horns were set in the stone, and gently layed the bundle in between them. One of the horns was broken, long before the building was even concieved, and the broken end was still littered with dark smudges that no one dared to clean off. It was a symbol of her heroicism. With the holly, he lined stems of gardenia down the horns of the bull above the door. When he finished he looked back at the door, where he imagined his sister was pressed, listening. "The boy from Hermes—he's a counselor now, you know—requested Holly and Gardenia. The holly represents domestic happiness, because you were like a mother to the younger kids." Max paused, taking a breath, feeling his throat starting to close. "...and the gardenias represent secret love. Had you waited a bit before leaving camp, he probably would've told you." A breeze came whipping through the field and the petals of the flowers swayed, but they did not move from their positions. Once the wind settled, Max took a deep breath and examined the last few flowers left. He first took the plump pink one and set it in the large ornate knocker on the door. "A pink carnation, rememberance. Those kids won't forget how happy you made them before you left, El." He could feel tears poking at his eyes now as he removed the last flower from the paper, a hive of purple star-shaped flowers. "Purple hyacinths. From me, El." He layed them on the woven welcome mat and stepped back, admiring the colors on the bold gray of her house. "I'm sorry, sis. I'm so, so sorry." He frowned, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his ratty brown coat. "It's in my blood, though. You know that." Before he turned to leave, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a crisply folded white letter, slipping it half under her door. "...I'll see you later, El." He stepped over his flowers carefully, and once again examined his handiwork. Her little mausoleum was decorated for her birthday. Through the still foggy window, he allowed himself to see what was truly inside—a stone coffin built on a raised platform. It was an accident, four months ago today. The day Max Stokerman accidentally—no, indirectly—killed his little sister. His little half-sister. Little Ellen Stokerman, who wanted so badly to be a godly like her brother. A little mortal girl who wanted to immerse herself in the mythology of it all. The girl who, after recieving her license, picked up the younger campers and took them shopping or to her house for sleepovers. The beautiful, the great, ''the ''Ellen Stokerman, who sacrificed her own life to save her young charges. Who allowed herself to be rammed by the Yale, a great bull-like creature with the tusks of a boar, and broke one of its horns in the process. In a way, he should have expected it. As the son of Menoetius, god of rash action and mortality, he should've known something like this would happen. He should have expected it and moved on. Max wiped a few stray tears from his eyes, turned, and stumbled past the rows of tombstones and outside the cemetary. It was time to go home. Category:Stories Category:One-shot Category:TheFlameMonster